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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Dane's Daze"  You don't run into anyone on the way out of the school, so you follow the path of least resistance; it (and you) wind up in the parking lot. But not until you're staring into it do you realize you don't even know which car is Dane's. Luckily, there are very few left to choose from; most of the remaining ones look too nice to be Dane's; by examining the key you narrow the range of possibilities down further; and the key fits the lock of the first one you try. Whew! It's a rusted-over sedan that's at least twenty-five years old, and out of it rolls an overpowering stench of stale weed, mold, dirty clothes and ... Jesus, did someone take a shit in the back seat or something? You hold your breath as you settle in; then find that the windows won't roll down. So you breathe through your mouth until you get used to the stink. On the dashboard are a pair of sunglasses. You try them on and look in the rearview mirror. Hey, you look pretty cool! You start the engine. Either it's lost its muffler or the muffler is broken, because it sounds like a cross between a jet engine and a lawnmower. You gun it a couple of times, and the stench of gasoline mixes with the other odors in the cabin. You put it in Drive and— You stand on the brake while fishing out Dane's wallet; you check the address on the driver's license; you blink, trying to place the street. With a sigh you look it up on his phone. Oh boy. He lives in a trailer park. * * * * * The car groans and sputters and sighs when you turn it off, and it shudders massively, like a wet dog shaking itself all over You struggle out and onto your feet. "Dane! Dane!" Chirping, excited voices call from the tiny yard in front of a trailer across the way: three half-naked kids, jumping up and down, grinning and waving. You grin and wave back, and hope that's enough for them. They seem satisfied, and don't call anymore as you lope toward the trailer that is apparently to serve as your home base. The yard—what there is of it—is overgrown with weeds poking up around bottles and cans and bits of cardboard boxes. You mount sagging wooden steps. Before opening the door, though, you take the precaution of lighting a joint and putting it between your lips. If this isn't Dane's place, the joint will give you a ready-made excuse for walking into the wrong trailer. The door squeaks as you open it. You blink into the darkness beyond, then step inside. Is it the hit you just took, or does the floor seem to slant down in one direction? You're standing in a tiny entry space, with a kitchen to your left, a living room to your right, and a cheap folding table directly in front of you. The kitchen has a refrigerator and a sink full of dirty dishes and some crusted over countertops. In the living room is a sagging, dark brown sofa and a ketchup-colored beanbag; the space between is filled with clothes. Curled on the sofa is a middle-aged woman. You tiptoe up and peer closely at her. She has dark reddish hair and lots of freckles. You decide that between her coloring and the general shape of her features, she must be Dane's mother. An acrid smell of burnt marijuana hangs in the room. On the other side of the kitchen is a hallway, and you explore it, finding a tiny bathroom with an even tinier shower, and two bedrooms. You're pretty sure the smaller of them is Dane's, for it seems unlikely that his mom would be hanging posters of half-naked girls in bondage gear on the walls. A small desk is also covered with school books, papers, and a couple of half-eaten sandwiches. You open the window and toss the latter outside for the birds. So, as the woman of the house seems passed out, you take advantage of the solitude to explore Dane's room a little more. No computer of any kind; in fact the only electronics are an ancient CD player and some tiny speakers. It sits on a warped chest of drawers, in the top drawer of which is a muddled stack of CD cases. Inside them are shiny CDs, unlabeled except for those few that have "MIX" scrawled across them with a thick magic marker. The rest of the drawers hold some badly folded clothes. More clothes—dirty—litter the floor. With a deep sigh, you settle down to sort through the school work. There's a French I book and couple of trade paperbacks about health and family finances. The papers are covered with half-completed math problems, or the start of essays that peter out after five or six words. Lots and lots of doodles of the spiral kind, though. After putting those aside, you dive into some very messy binders and notebooks, going through them page by page. Slowly, a sketch of Dane's academic life emerges. Then—blessedly!—it comes into sharp focus when you find his official class schedule from the start of the year: 1. Intermediate Algebra -- Simeon 2. Entrepreneurship -- Peters 3. French I -- Henderson 4. US History -- Walberg 5. Lunch 6. Reading for Pleasure -- Gladstone 7. Art II -- Trencher 8. Family and Consumer Sciences I -- Duggan The sheet also includes a locker number and combination. You sigh with deep relief, and tuck the sheet into Dane's bag. Then, as a further precaution, you take it back out and copy the information onto yet another sheet, which you put in his top drawer. You're feeling hungry by now, and return to the kitchen. The refrigerator contains lots of little plastic containers with little bits of food in them: most of them look like portions of cooked vegetables, and most of them smell pretty rank. You are forced to content yourself with some slices of baloney and white bread. You also get yourself a glass of water, and the dishes shift, clattering loudly. A noise comes from the living room, and you look over to find the woman blinking stupidly without raising up. She says something you can't make out, so you go over. "Whatdja say?" you ask. She rubs her eyes. "Dwayne called," she says sleepily. "He wants you to call him back." "Who?" "Dwayne." She smacks her lips, and nestles back down into the cushions. You barely make out her last words: "It's important." Well, shit. Dane's probably not the type to act on any message given him, even one marked urgent. On the other hand—you tear off another bite of the sandwich—what if it's about food? Someone has to take care of these two potheads, and maybe it's him. But who is "Dwayne"? And what's his number? And if he wants to find Dane, why is he calling here and not Dane on his cell? Dane's cell. You check it again. Sure enough, Dwayne Macauly is one of the names in the call list. You almost touch the call back button, but since he called this place, you grab up the phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen. The line on the other end burrs three times before picking up: "Yeah?" answers a sharp voice. "Heeeyyyy, Dwaaaayyyyne," you drawl cheerily. A long pause. "Hang on." Indistinct voices. Then a new one, even more rough and rude and impatient: "Where the fuck have you been?" Your heart skips. "I's at school," you gasp. "I had detention with my history teacher." "Like I give a shit. Come over, I've got some more stuff for you." Stuff? You don't like the sound of that. "Uh huh. Where are you?" "Clear the fucking fumes from your brain. My place. Move." The line cuts out. Dwayne, whoever he is, does not sound like someone to fuck around with, and it sounds like he doesn't cut Dane any slack. But where do you find this guy? Lucky for you—or maybe not—you're able to track him through his phone number. You really don't like the address you find. * * * * * Dane Matthias may live in a poor part of town, but Dwayne Macaulay—if this is the right place—lives in the worst part: the industrial area near where the old railroad depot used to operate. The house are all made of white-washed cinderblock, and most of the windows are barred or boarded over, and the few people sitting out stare with beady eyes as you drive past. Dwayne's address is just like the others: a cheap, weather-discolored shack so small it is practically cube-shaped, with a single door in the middle flanked by two tiny windows. The curtains are shut behind metal bars. Slowly you make your way up a cracked sidewalk. The door opens before you can knock, and the man who opens it pulls you quickly inside. * To continue: "Dane's Deals" |
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